


Déjà Brew

by kekinkawaii



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:07:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27414718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kekinkawaii/pseuds/kekinkawaii
Summary: In which two idiots hopelessly pine over each other until Charlie steps in.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 19
Kudos: 98





	Déjà Brew

Dean doesn’t actually like coffee.

Yes, he knows he’s in a coffee shop. Yes, he knows he’s ordering a cup of coffee, large, medium roast, with a fuckton of sugar and cream because that’s the only way it tastes more or less like something edible and not like someone took Satan’s tears and boiled them down into a fine, black, bitter powder. Yes, he does this every day. He almost likes it, now, in a sadistic sort of way. Stockholm Syndrome, he calls it.

It’s not like he’s a masochist or anything. And, sure, he could order tea instead—or one of those ridiculously-overpriced bottled waters—or a croissant, or a scone, or any of the dozen other options scrawled across the top of the chalkboard sign advertising their multiple, various gluten-free and vegan options. (Sam would love this place. He’ll tell him about it someday.)

It’s just that. Well.

When Dean does his daily routine of walking into the coffee shop after a grueling shift at the garage, he orders a large, medium roast coffee, and, after he’s holding his cup of sweetened Satan’s tears in his hands, he takes a cursory sweep of the cafe. There’s the lady who’s always reading trashy romance novels in the corner (strawberry scone, two if she’s feeling frisky). There’s the dad with the two daughters beaming with their hot-chocolate moustaches. The barista knows him, now; he’s a  _ regular,  _ can you believe that? A regular who doesn’t even like coffee. He just likes… Well… 

Cas always sits at the table for two next to the window overlooking the hanging plants outside the shop. He always sits facing it, gazing into the distant sky when he’s not tapping away at his laptop like a madman.

_ He  _ always gets coffee. And maybe, one day, if Dean ever gets his shit together and doesn’t pussy out in finally, finally asking him out, he’ll look up, and he’ll smile, and say,  _ Why yes of course I’ll get dinner with you, about time you asked.  _ And when that happens, Dean doesn’t want to be the weirdo who buys nothing but bottled water at a gourmet coffee shop.

Yes, Dean knows it’s a stupid, stupid fantasy, woven with sugar-spun hopes. In reality, if Dean ever gets his shit together, Cas’ll probably look up, and he’ll frown, and say,  _ I thought we were just mutual table-sharing buddies.  _ Because that’s what Dean called them, when Cas smiled and asked him if they were “going steady” now, after a full week of table-sharing. Because he’s an idiot. __

But it’s a nice way to pass the time, and it’s not like Dean has anything to do after work, anyway, except watch mindless reruns on the TV, go to the bar alone and pick up some forgetful one-night stand. It’s therapeutic at this point, to sit with a cup of coffee and sip at it whilst chatting away the remnants of his day with Cas for a full hour, two if he’s lucky. The routine’s grown on him like mossy rock: these days, Dean can almost feel the restless tingling in the back of his head without his dose of caffeine.

(Or maybe this is all an elaborate excuse, because every time Dean catches sight of Cas smiling and waving him over, the tingling in the back of his mind goes blissfully quiet.)

It’s honestly getting ridiculous. When Dean ran into the shop two weeks ago to escape a brutal rainstorm, he had wanted nothing more than a roof and some warm air.

There had been a swarm of other customers in the cafe that night, nearly half of them regulars, the others simply there for the same reason as Dean. They had been huddled near the entrance, heads craned towards the darkening sky. Dean had thought, fuck it, and settled in for the long haul, queueing up for a bowl of soup for the cold day.

Steaming bowl in his hands, he had looked around the shop for a place to sit—and found none. He’d stood awkwardly for a few seconds before a voice called his attention over to the corner of the room. He’d looked over, and got a faceful of tousled black hair, startlingly blue eyes, and a smile that nearly knocked Dean right over.

For an hour, he’d sat across from Cas, right next to the window, where the potted plants swung wildly in the wind. For an hour, he had gathered his courage to say something that conveyed his thoughts of  _ Dinner, movie, maybe a kiss? Please?  _ But instead, what came out of his mouth were mindless ramblings about the rain, the coffee, the gorgeous Red Pontiac parked right next to the curb (which apparently Cas owned—how could he be so damn  _ perfect,  _ Dean was flabbergasted). And he talked and he talked, and inside his head he went  _ Please be gay, please be gay,  _ until the rain petered to a stop an hour later and he walked out the door. And walked right back in the next day. And the next. And the next. Every time, Cas would be there, and he’d look up and see Dean, and he’d smile, and wave him over. And Dean would smile back, the weight of the arduous day lifted by the crinkles around those sea-blue eyes.

It’s been two weeks since that day, and since then, Dean has learned many things about Cas. He knows that he’s a children book author and illustrator, and recently published his third book in a series about a bunny-rabbit and her jaybird best friend. He knows that he takes yoga lessons on Tuesday mornings, that he’s allergic to walnuts, that his favourite colour is dark green and that he hates almond milk. 

He knows that he’s gay. And that should be a sign, a nudge, a shove, for Dean to just man up and  _ fucking ask him already,  _ but every time he tries, his throat dries up as his mind races through the dozens of sour turns the path can end up, and he veers wildly back to a safe subject.

It should be enough, to be able to talk to Cas and see Cas and hear his laugh on gloomy winter afternoons, but Dean yearns to run his fingers through his hair and see if it’s as soft as it looks. He wants to pull him close and tuck him into his chest, to breathe in tandem. He wants more, and while it feels greedy, it feels good, this burning inside his ribs. It feels like purgatory, draped in the rich, heady scent of coffee beans.

-+-+-+-

Castiel loves coffee. He adores it. It’s heaven to him, if heaven were deep mahogany and finely-ground beans in a steaming cup of perfection.

He knows he’s a little—a lot—addicted. Perhaps it should be worrying, how high the level of acceptance to addiction of this substance, clearly defined as a drug, has established itself in societal standards. But it’s  _ coffee.  _ He’s tried to kick the habit, but the buzz gives him double the productivity he usually has, his dialogue sharper, his illustrations more vivid, and at some point between publishing his first book and the sequel, Castiel accepted caffeine as his begrudging captor. It’s Stockholm Syndrome, that’s what it is.

He’s fallen in love with the cozy little coffee shop at the corner of the street. The atmosphere provides a perfect backdrop of murmurs for focus, the scones are crumbly and warm, and the coffee—oh, lord, the  _ coffee.  _ Ever since he discovered the hideout a few months ago, it’s firmly established itself into his daily routine. 

He loves it for the coffee, of course, but recently, he finds himself looking forward to the afternoons for more than just the drinks. 

Dean is a mechanic. He likes Vonnegut and dogs (he’d get one if he could, a greyhound or a husky, except his apartment doesn’t permit pets), and he hates the snow (emphasized repeatedly throughout their afternoon meetings, usually accompanied with a sneeze and a glare at the slush on his boots).

Two weeks ago, Castiel had been staring aimlessly into the streets through the window when he saw the skies turn grey. Seconds later, the sky had opened up and poured rain through the streets, and the crowd had dispersed and came scrabbling into the doors like hydrophobic ants. Castiel had watched, sipping his coffee, as the store piled up. And then his eyes caught on a flash of green eyes and blond hair, dark-tipped with the rain, droplets sliding down the back of his neck, and a jolt of something that felt like the lightning outside struck Castiel right down to the toes.

He was clutching a bowl of soup, and he didn’t have a place to sit.

These days, there are usually empty seats, without the pressure of a storm urging people into the shop. But Castiel calls for Dean anyway, waving him over, and Dean always smiles, and makes his way to the seat across from him. Castiel wonders how he spent so long staring at that empty seat without feeling as if something was starkly missing, because he couldn’t imagine it now without Dean’s loud, carefree laugh and easy grin.

And maybe Castiel is overly hopeful, or his rose-tinted glasses have fogged up, because he swears, promises, that sometimes he sees the glimpse of a too-long glance. A smidge. A flush on Dean’s ears that maybe, just maybe, means more than just the cold.

Surely Castiel has dropped enough hints that he’s more than interested. He’s come out to him already, and Dean’s informed Castiel of his bisexuality in return. Castiel makes sure to keep his smile friendly, more than, his flirting subtle enough to dismiss, but enough to notice as well. But Dean remains stubbornly silent, deflecting Castiel’s hints with a quip and a chuckle.

(Mutual table-sharing buddies. What the hell does that mean? Castiel’s pessimism tilts that towards a polite friend-zoning. But what does Dean want, then, when his eyes linger on his lips just a second too long?)

It’s driving Castiel insane. He tells himself it’s enough to be friends with Dean, for their circumstances to be so perfect that they just happened to meet each other, to be able to talk to him every day. But he wants Dean’s smile all to himself. He wants to twine their fingers together, the roughness of Dean’s callouses against his own hand. He wants to see if those lips feel as soft as they look.

So Castiel waits nervously at the table each day, and smiles when he sees Dean, and lets himself indulge in both the richness of his coffee and the smooth tenor of Dean’s voice.

-+-+-+-

Charlie doesn’t really think a lot about coffee. Sure, it’s  _ good,  _ she supposes. But it’s not unicorn tears or anything. From the reactions of a few customers she’s seen, they weren’t just unicorn tears, they were encrusted with diamond powder, too. 

But she isn’t complaining. The more customers, the more tips, and god knows she needs it after her retail therapy after her last midterm sent her into an existential spiral. She’s a few figurines and enamel pins richer and about fifty bucks lighter.

And sure, she’s suffered ten times the amount of burns the average college student gets, and she’s handled the occasional insufferable customer (kill ‘em with kindness, her boss had said, and Charlie took that personally. Her ultimate tactic is to smile so hard they look unsettled), but her job isn’t bad. It’s pretty fun, actually. She gets free coffee every Sunday, the leftover cookies at the end of the day, and, most importantly, she gets to people watch.

It’s like free fanfiction, honestly. 

And nothing— _ nothing _ —will beat the epic shipping war of Dean and Castiel. The baristas have taken to placing bets on their inevitable turnout. Charlie’s never been so excited to brew coffee.

It was cute, at first, watching Dean secretly watch Castiel over his laptop like an enamoured puppy. It was sweet, at first, watching Castiel make as many excuses as he can to knock over the menu on the table so that, when they both bend over to pick it up, their fingers brush, and they both come up flushed and smiling.

It was fun at first, and then it got kind of ridiculous.

They’re an unstoppable force and an unmoving object; both too scared to tread past the comfort lines of friendzone road and take a left turn into romance avenue. Plus, Charlie placed her ten dollars at stake for this Wednesday, and on Monday afternoon, the two of them were still gazing longingly at each other with no sign of action.

Maybe it’s time for a touch of outside influence.

-+-+-+-

The snow is harsh today. By the time Dean’s reached the cafe, he’s shivering down to the bone. He can see, and feel, the clumps of icy snow sticking to his eyelashes, turning his vision into a blurry mess. His socks are wet.

The bell chimes as he pushes open the door, and today, there seems to be more customers than ever, all grateful for an escape from the weather. A faint acoustic cover of a Christmas song is playing from the speakers overhead, and the chalkboard sign has new additions of red and green flourishes, large cursive advertising their new peppermint mocha.

His eyes sweep across the room, and there he is. Waist-deep in the rabbithole of emails with his editor, judging from the concentration crease on the bridge of his nose. Dean feels a smile light up his face as he makes his way towards the cashier—the bubbly redhead whose nametag reads an all-caps CHARLIE!! adorned with stars. She’s cute, in a nerdy kind of way, with her glasses and her tendency to make Star Wars references in the strands of conversation Dean’s picked up while waiting for his order.

“Hey,” Dean says when he approaches. She’s wearing a fuzzy pair of reindeer antlers. 

Charlie grins back at him. “‘Sup?”

“Nothing much,” Dean says. “The usual, please. Medium roast, large—”

Charlie interrupted him with a hand. “I gotcha, dude.” She smiles again. She seems exceptionally cheerful today. “I can bring over your orders, actually—you just sit right over there, right? Next to Castiel?” She tilts her head towards the side.

Surprised, Dean says, “That works,” and before he can thank her, Charlie’s already chirped out a “Great!” and punched the numbers into the register before dashing off to make his order.

Dean’s brow furrows as he pays, but the confusion is dashed away and tucked into the back of his mind when he pockets his wallet and heads over to the corner of the cafe, where Cas is waving a hand at him like he always does. He’s wearing a navy blue button-up today, trenchcoat tucked behind his chair, and the colour makes his irises look electric.

“Hello, Dean,” he says, and Dean thinks that maybe, just maybe, today will be the day.

He grins back, easy, light. “Hey, Cas,” spoken casual and cool. “Mind if I take a seat?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

Dean’s just pulled back his chair and eased his way into the seat when Charlie arrives at their table, mug of coffee in her hand.

“Medium roast for Dean,” she announces.

“Thanks,” Dean says, dashing a grateful smile at her. He reaches for it, only for her to withdraw her hand. Quick as a ghost, she hides the coffee behind her back.

“Ah, not so fast,” Charlie says. “This coffee comes with a price.”

Dean pauses. “I already paid, didn’t I?”

“Not  _ that  _ kind of payment, silly,” Charlie says, and then winks.

“Um,” Dean says.

“Go out with me,” Charlie says, brightly.

“Um,” Dean says again. (Fuck.)

Charlie grins. “I know a really good sushi place right down the street.”

“Dean hates sushi,” Cas cuts in. His expression is unreadable.

“I do,” Dean murmurs, surprised that Cas remembered. He doesn’t even remember telling Cas that. 

“Not sushi, then,” Charlie says smoothly. “Dinner? Steak and some wine?”

“Try burgers and beer instead,” Cas says, almost as if he can’t help it. “Dean doesn’t like all that wine-and-dine song-and-dance.”

“I don’t,” Dean says uncertainly, eyes flickering between Cas and Charlie.

“Jeez,” Charlie says. “Seems like Cas here has got you all figured out.” She grins at Cas. “You could be my wingman!”

The look Cas levels at Charlie is enough to make Dean shiver from the sidelines.

Charlie, taken aback, turns to Dean. “Whaddya say?” she says.

“I’m gay,” Dean blurts.

“You told me you were bisexual,” Cas cuts in. Charlie raises her eyebrows.

Well, shit. “I am,” Dean mutters.

Charlie’s eyebrows gather higher, like a puppeteer’s tied a string to them and is steadily drawing them towards the ceiling.

It’s not like Dean doesn’t like Charlie. It really isn’t. She’s cute and she’s spunky and, in any other occasion, Dean would turn on the charm and think, Hell, why not? It’s just that—

Cas’s face is perfectly blank.

“Why not?” Charlie says, when the silence isn’t broken after a long few moments. “Just give it a shot. Who knows what’ll happen?”

And Dean knows that she’s talking about the two of them, but his mind twists the words around until they’re strangling his chest, a too-tight tourniquet from two weeks’ worth of holding it in.

“I can’t,” Dean says.

He watches Castiel’s eyes clear, surprise and skepticism and, for the briefest of moments, just the faintest flicker of wild hope. It’s enough.

Dean swallows, hard enough to hear his throat click like the cocking of a gun. “I’m already taken by someone else.”

The hope is swirled away with murky confusion. Dean looks away, back to Charlie. “I’m sorry,” he offers weakly.

Charlie shrugs. “Oh, well, why didn’t you just say so?” She reveals the coffee from behind her back, placing it on the table. “Can’t blame a girl for trying. Enjoy your date—I mean day! Enjoy!”

She whirls away in a flurry of flaming hair.

Dean attempts a laugh. “That was awkward,” he tries, turning back to Cas. Who’s looking at Dean with eyes like x-ray lasers.

“You have a significant other?” Cas says.

Dean clams up. “In a way. Kind of. Not really. Maybe?” (Hopefully. Please?)

“Dean,” Cas says in that no-bullshit voice of his that Dean really shouldn’t find as attractive as it does. The lasers crank up to twelve. Dean can feel the tips of his hair singeing.

“Okay, okay,” he says desperately. “Okay, fine, I’ll tell you. Fine!”

Dean takes a deep breath. Cas crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. 

Dean inhales again, says, “It’s kind of a funny story, actually—”

_ “Dean—” _

“It’s you, okay? I’ve liked you ever since the first time I saw you that day when it was raining like crazy and it’s been really, really, really hard not to say anything because what if I mess things up between us, because you’re, you’re smart and you’re funny and you’re awesome and I don’t need a, a, a  _ kiss  _ or a date or anything to want to hang out with you, even though I really, really want to.”

Dean shuts himself up by forcibly slamming his mouth closed, chest heaving. He takes a moment to compose himself, and then chances a glance at Cas.

Cas is staring at Dean in a way that implies he’s either done something incredibly awe-inducing or incredibly stupid, like covering his naked body in paint and streaking through the woods. (Which Dean has totally never done before on a drunken dare, what do you mean. There are no pictures.)

“Please say something,” Dean says weakly.

“Dean,” Cas says. “You are a colossal idiot.”

Dean blinks, startled and a little disappointed. “Is that a no?”

“No,” Cas says. “I mean, yes. I mean—oh, just get over here, will you?”

He reaches over, grabs Dean’s face with his hands, and crushes their mouths together in a brief, clumsy kiss.

Somewhere else in the room, Dean very, very dimly registers a triumphant whoop.

When Cas pulls away, Dean doesn’t notice, his mind stuck on the freeze-frame of Cas’s lips on his, a stuttering broken record. His internal equilibrium veers wildly and clatters down a cliff, where it crashes and burns. He licks his lips and tastes coffee.

“I’ve wanted to do that for over two weeks,” Cas says. “I’ve dropped enough hints to fill up an empty  _ auditorium.” _

“You,” Dean says. “What. Really?”

“Yes, really!”

“Huh,” Dean says. For some reason, he can’t seem to stop smiling.

Cas sighs. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “I am.”

They fall into a silence; comfortable and sweet. Dean’s insides feel coated with sunshine and honey and he kind of gets all those stupid cheesy love song lyrics, now. 

His wraps his hands around the mug of coffee, lain forgotten on the table, and pulls it in close. He ducks his head, inhaling deeply before letting it out in a sigh; takes a sip, savouring the bittersweetness dashing across his tongue.

When he opens his eyes, Cas is peering at him inquisitively.

Dean raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“You really  _ do  _ enjoy coffee, after all.”

Dean frowns. “Did you think I didn’t?”

“No,” Cas says, blunt. “To be perfectly honest, the first few days, you looked as if you were sucking on a lemon each time you took a sip. I was going to ask you why you kept buying it if you didn’t actually enjoy it, but…” He glances back, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “I suppose you got over it.”

“Oh.” Dean can feel heat crawling up his cheeks. “I guess I wasn’t as smooth as I thought.”

“Oh?”

“You always ordered coffee.” Dean blushes.

Cas looks flummoxed. “So you decided to order coffee as well to impress me with your incredible coffee-drinking abilities?”

“Yes,” Dean deadpans.

Cas’s laugh is loud enough that it traverses across the entire room.

“Oh,  _ Dean,”  _ he says, faux-fawning and fanning his face with a hand. “Medium roast? You rascal!”

“Shut up,” Dean mutters. “I’ll get a bottle of Dasani next time, see how you like that.”

Cas rolls his eyes. He reaches across the table, and unpeels one of Dean’s hands from his death grip around the mug, claiming it for his own by twining their fingers together.

“Try Earl Grey tea instead,” he suggests. “It has bergamot oil in it.”

“Is that supposed to mean anything?”

“Just try it,” Cas insists. He squeezes Dean’s hand, and Dean melts like a pile of snow in the sun.

“‘Kay,” he says.

“But for now,” Cas says. “Let’s finish our coffee. I still have a few more emails to respond to. And then…”

Dean chews on the inside of his lip. “And then?”

“And then,” Cas says, “We can go get an early dinner at the diner across town. It has homemade cherry pie, with the crumbly crust that you like.”

“I’d love that,” Dean says quietly.

Cas smiles, and then turns his attention back to his laptop. His hand slips out of Dean’s to land on the keyboard, fingers flying, and Dean flexes his hand, feeling a tingle travel up his wrist. He already misses Cas, and he’s right in front of him. 

“Stop staring,” Cas murmurs without taking his eyes off the screen.

“Make me.”

Cas spares a second to shoot Dean a heated look. “I will as soon as I finish this draft. Drink your coffee.”

Dean does. It’s never tasted better.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. OKAY. I was writing this, and halfway through writing this the latest episode of SPN came out (and so did Cas apparently), and I haven't had enough time to process everything yet, but in the meantime, I hope you enjoyed my self-indulgent coffee shop drabbles.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Stay safe as always. Cheers <333


End file.
